Rae Carson: The Girl of Fire and Thorns

Don’t they realize a war is coming?

“It is precisely the coming war that makes them so desperate to lose themselves in the details of this celebration,” Ximena explains. “So be a good queen-to-be and smile a lot and let them have their bit of happiness.”

She’s right, and guilt twinges in my chest. I have been forgetting to be kind.

“Now tell me,” she says. “Which of these gowns do you like best?”

We settle on a silk gown with a sheer overlay. It’s an airy wine gold color, with dainty yellow vines embroidered along the hem. Next to the shimmery fabric, my sun-darkened skin fairly glows. We used to hem all my dresses, but I’m a little taller now than when I was taken into the desert. Surely that will be the last of my growth spurts.

“It will be perfect once I let it out a little in the bust,” Ximena says. “Alejandro will think you’re beautiful when he sees it.” Her eyes shine with something powerful. She is the mother I never had, and like a mother, she is going to soak up the day of my coronation, treasuring each moment in her heart. I reach forward and give her a squeeze.

“Thank you, Ximena.”

Early the next morning, my nurse awakens me by opening the balcony curtains to let the sunrise stream copper across my face. Mara helps me across the slippery tile into the bathing pool while Ximena prepares an herbal soak.

“Mara, these tiles.” I run my fingers across the glazed surface. Each one is individually painted, but they all show the same thing: a bouquet, four yellow petals to a flower, each petal with a single blue spot, like a blot of ink or maybe an eye. My Godstone responds so strangely when I look at them up close, like it’s greeting an old friend. “Can you ask around today? Learn something about them?”

“Of course.” She lathers my hair and I lean back, closing my eyes.

Hours later, I’m standing outside the audience hall for the second time in three days. I hear the buzz behind the double doors as I wait, suffocating in my creamy silk. Another rushed ceremony, like my wedding. And once again, Alejandro waits for me at the end of a very long walk. This time, though, my father is not here to escort me. Lord Hector has that honor, by my request.

I look up at his handsome, weathered face. He is taller even than Alejandro, a sturdy, comforting presence.

He studies me thoughtfully. “You are a beautiful queen, Elisa,” he says, voice pitched low.

I never expected he would say such a thing. “A month or two of pastries will fix that,” I say. Then I smile to show him I mean it flippantly.

His expression does not change. “Even then.”

It is kind of him to say so. “Thank you for doing this, Hector. I’m glad you’re here.”

He squeezes my arm. “Always.” He looks toward the doors now, his face a stone, but I know him a little better now. Like Cosmé, he becomes ice to keep from feeling too much.

The first wisps of the “Glorifica” filter through the walls. Hector and I straighten. The music ascends in steady arpeggios, the doors open inward. I hold my head high as Hector escorts me down the newly carpeted aisle. Alejandro stands transfixed by my approach, Rosario a slender shadow beside him.

It all happens very quickly. Alejandro kisses my cheek; Father Nicandro intones an oath about honor and responsibility that I repeat back to him. The priest lifts the crown from a cushioned pedestal—a thick golden thing that makes my head hurt just to look at—and lodges it firmly against my scalp with a wink.

He gestures for me to face the court, then announces, “Queen Lucero-Elisa de Vega né Riqueza!”

The entire nobility drops to its knees. Alejandro grasps my hand, and together we sit side by side on our thrones. I watch enviously as Rosario is whisked away by a nurse. My rear grows cold and stiff as every single noble in the audience hall is presented to me. I remember Ximena’s words about allowing them the veil of happiness they desperately desire. So I greet each one with a confident smile and mumble words of encouragement whenever anyone brings up the subject of war.

But it is all an act, for as the afternoon wears on, my navel begins to pulse with telltale cold. It’s faint, nothing a quick prayer can’t erase. But it means that Invierne is coming for me, that they are even closer than we thought.

WHEN the coronation ends I expect to return my attention to the serious matter of war preparation. Instead, it seems as though half the citizens of Joya d’Arena need a royal consultation or a queenly favor. The other half is anxious to place me in their debt, and they inundate me with nuggets of wisdom regarding certain pertinent matters, shower me with gifts, introduce me to people of crucial importance. I spend the first two days as queen bobbing my head like a chicken and saying “Thank you.”

On the second afternoon, while the petite but unlovely Lady Jada chatters at me in my suite, frustration builds like an avalanche in my gut. There are so many things I could be doing. I need to be searching for the Godstones, going over battle strategy with General Luz-Manuel, preparing for refugees, having a talk with Condesa Ariña, maybe spending time with Rosario.

Rosario. No one notices him. No one cares what he does.

I interrupt Lady Jada’s aspersion of inferior laundering practices by raising my hand. “I just realized I’ve forgotten to attend to something very important.” I smile blandly. “I hope you can forgive me.”

She wrinkles her tiny nose in confusion but recovers quickly. “We’ll have to talk again soon,” she says, curtsying.

“I look forward to it.”

As soon as she leaves, I turn to Ximena. “Rosario is going to stay in our suite for a few days. I need an extra bed brought in, some clothes for playing in, maybe a few toys. Tell his nurse she has a week off. In fact, tell her she doesn’t have to come back until the war is over.”

Her smile is broad. “I’ll go at once.”

I send Mara to retrieve the boy himself, then spend a few minutes pacing through my suite, thinking. Every time I glance at the tiles rimming my bathing pool, the Godstone hums in response.

Mara returns, Rosario in tow. His eyes are wide, his gaze bordering on suspicious.

I grin. “I thought you might like to stay with us for a while.”

His eyes narrow. “How come?”

I open my mouth to tell him something comforting and innocuous. I want us to get acquainted , or I need a companion for a few outings . But I remember growing up in Papá’s palace hacienda while adults talked over my head, and what I say is, “I need your help.”

His lips purse with serious consideration. “I told Papá I could help. With the war. But he said I had to wait until I was older.”

“Well, I need your help right now. With the war. How would you like to do a little spying?”

His lips curve into a shy grin.

Late in the afternoon, the first wave of refugees arrives. They are mostly young and healthy—the ones who could travel quickly. We accommodate several hundred in the palace, a hundred more at surrounding estates. I spend the early evening making them as comfortable as possible, sifting through their tales of hardship and escape for any possible mention of the friends I left behind. I learn that the Malficio continues to make its presence felt, that thousands of people, mostly refugees, now contribute to its purpose. But my Godstone grows colder, and I worry for the those who will not reach us ahead of Invierne’s advancing army.

That night in the dining hall, I share a private meal with my husband and General Luz-Manuel. We’re finishing off a platter of wild turkey glazed with honey and shredded orange peel when a breathless scout tumbles in, Lord Hector on his heels. He reports sighting a huge line of cavalry, less than a day away.